


Ribbon

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bows, Confused John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Finger Sucking, Frustrated Sherlock, Horny (yet grumpy) Sherlock, John is a Mess, M/M, Masturbation, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Mike Stamford Mentioned - Freeform, Ribbons, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, This is mostly just written for Kittie's kinks. Not even going to lie.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21853747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: As he stepped through the divider, happy to find the fire roaring, he was unexpectedly bombarded with coloured clutter from his right, and stunned he turned to find the coffee table littered with rolls of ribbon, all different kinds of colours and patterns and styles and types. Some were thin, others were thick. Half were messily unwound from their rolls and the rest were still neatly confined. The sofa was coated too, only with perfectly tied bows, many, many, many bows made out of the many, many, many different ribbons, and Sherlock was sat in the middle of them all cross-legged, completely naked.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Ribbon

John ruffled the slushy snow from his hair, his trousers, and stomped it from his shoes the instant he hopped in from outside, hating how quickly the snow that morning had turned from light and fluffy, to wet and heavy in seconds, drenching and lathering the pavement, the buildings, the lights, the people, in a cascading curtain of greyish white. It had been another brilliant wonderland at first, everything crispy and pure, the perfect weather for a friendly meet-up with Mike Stamford and his cheerful, bubbly wife, and a happy exchange of presents. Then the sky had darkened, the wind had changed, and the descent of mushed, dirty melting ice, had rained down on them, catching everyone by surprise in its attack. John could only thank his lucky stars that he’d worn extra layers on a whim, keeping the soaking chill from fully reaching his torso and feet, otherwise he was sure he would have become an even grumpier grump than he currently was.

Growling out a sigh, John took his shoes, coat, scarf and gloves with him as he ascended, annoyed at how they dripped, but determined to dry them out near the fireplace or on the radiators, instead of leaving them to fester in the cold entranceway and grow musty. He went through the kitchen first, to cut down on sodden rugs for his future self and to prevent a tutting Mrs Hudson, and wringed out the fabrics over the bath, glaring at the thunderous patter of thick, copious, frigid droplets as they came. He needed a new coat. He needed a new everything really. John knew that his things were becoming tattered and thin from being overly worn, knew he really should have more than one reliable coat, but he was frugal and forgot, frequently, that London could be a tad cold when it wanted to, even with all the insulating buildings. Wafting the coat of the remaining droplets, or as much of the remaining droplets that John could see, he brought everything back through to the kitchen, then towards the living room.

As he stepped through the divider, happy to find the fire roaring, he was unexpectedly bombarded with coloured clutter from his right, and stunned he turned to find the coffee table littered with rolls of ribbon, all different kinds of colours and patterns and styles and types. Some were thin, others were thick. Half were messily unwound from their rolls and the rest were still neatly confined. The sofa was coated too, only with perfectly tied bows, many, many, many bows made out of the many, many, many different ribbons, and Sherlock was sat in the middle of them all cross-legged, completely naked. He had lace bows tied around his neck, wrists, ankles, and, as John gave a wide-eyed glance downward, even his flaccid penis. 

As he stared, Sherlock looked back at him from under a floppy quiff of hair and quirked an eyebrow, mouth pursing in immense displeasure, “You were supposed to be back _hours_ ago.”

“What… what are you _doing_ ?” John croaked when everything came crashing down over him again, the ribbons, the bows, the nudity, and he quickly averted his gaze, flushing hot and taking several shaky steps to lean against the back of his armchair. “Why are you _naked_?—And what _is all of this_? Did you buy these today, while I was out? How much did all of this _cost_ for God’s sake!”

“Well, I wasn’t sure which type of ribbon would create the best affect--”

John tensed in exasperation, hunching his shoulders up and rolling his eyes, “ _Oh my God_ , really? So you had to buy _all of them_?”

“There’s only fifteen, John.”

“There looks to be _a lot_ more than fifteen, Sherlock.”

“ _Look_ again,” Sherlock huffed and gestured with one irritated, flapping hand, fingers signalling out certain ones with an arrogant, elegant circling, “I bought different thicknesses for _some_ of the fifteen. I am fully aware of my girth and length, I thought it might look more _appealing_ if I—”

“ _Why_ have you done this?” John exclaimed, ears burning hot, nape prickling, as arousal almost had him toppling down onto his knees. He pushed off from his chair and just about managed to hang his coat, scarf and gloves over a radiator, his shoes thudding down beside the fireplace, before he rubbed at his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked overwhelmed. He felt overwhelmed. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted to not want Sherlock. “ _Jesus Christ_ … Sherlock, what if Mrs Hudson had come up here?”

“‘ _What if_ ?’ She already _has_ ,” Sherlock drawled and shrugged when John span around with a cringing groan of humiliated despair. “I couldn’t exactly _move_ , John, I’d displace all my hard work.” He sighed with a forming scowl and quickly held up his hand when John stammered and animatedly swept his arm around, ready to start repeating himself, ready to lecture, ready to ramble. John was somewhat thankful that Sherlock had stopped the tirade. He was sure that whatever it had been, wouldn't have made much sense. “Why do you _think_ I’ve done this? What do you _think_ this is I’m doing? - I’m _presenting_ you with a gift.”

“A… _gift_?”

Sherlock nodded down to his crotch, “A gift.”

“Your _dick_ is a gift?”

“...Well, _yes_ ,” Sherlock replied and frowned, shifting, abdomen muscles flexing and toes curling, a ripple of brief apprehension stiffening his frame, “though mostly what I’m going to _do_ with it for you.”

John blinked and swallowed thickly, “ _What_?”

“I’m going to _masturbate_ for you,” Sherlock told him simply, bluntly, and grinned, a large, smug, rather flirtatious grin. A grin that faltered when John did nothing but gape at him, motionless, with his blood running hot and his cock twitching to life. “Don’t… you… don’t you want that? I thought—Is it the _type_ of ribbon I used? I… I went through them all and this is the most comfortable, the least restricting for when I become erect, and looks the best with my complexion. Not entirely surprising, giving its use in underwear... lace is also rather risqué too, of course, which is another reason I chose it--”

“ _No_. No, I… it's nothing about the type of ribbon. I just… I don’t know how to process this, how to respond,” John replied with a short laugh, taking in the pretty picture that Sherlock made. The placement of each bow. How his pale skin looked in contrast to the multi-coloured ribbons that surrounded him, that clung to certain parts of him, that lay before him. “I know that we… that we’ve done… that we do _things_ together… but…”

“Why is this _still_ an issue for you?” Sherlock snapped, folding his arms. His corded, lovely arms. God, John couldn't choose what to stare at first, those arms, those legs, that bared chest, waist, or hips. “Isn’t what we’re doing, what we _want_ , what I present self-explanatory? - Am I doing it _wrong_? - Who really needs words when our actions are so much more _eloquent_?” 

John licked his lips, finding it difficult to focus, to really think of what he was against, of what he wanted to do about this, “I… just… there is a _lot_ going on with us and… nothing is _obvious_ , even with stuff like this. Even when we… when I’m—”

“ _Sucking my cock_?”

“ _Fuck_ , stop that!”  
  
“Perhaps when I’m _sucking yours_?”

“ _Sherlock_ \--”

“Or when we _grind_ together, skin-to-skin, sweating and… and moaning and—”

“For the love of God, _stop_!” John groaned and made it a few steps further, just at the edge of the coffee table, shins just barely skimming the side, catching on a dangling drape of crimson ribbon. There was more to it. There was more to everything. How could Sherlock think it was so simple? Was that what it was to him? Did he not understand? “ _Where_ did this come from?”

Sherlock took a deep breath with an irked glance upwards, “ _John_ ,” he husked and made sure their eyes met and steadied and stayed, before he wet his lower lip, lowered his arms to stroke at his thighs, and leaned forward, “I. Want. To. Please. _You_.” With that said, as slowly and condescendingly as humanly possible, he extend a hand, palm upwards. “ _Come here_.”

He knew they needed more than that, knew he needed more than that, knew he would still be in a state of perpetual limbo, yet he walked around the coffee table and took that hand, letting his cold fingertips slide to Sherlock’s slim wrist and hold on. John couldn’t believe what was happening as Sherlock drew him closer and kissed each knuckle, taking his index finger and middle finger into his mouth, to suck, and lick, and bite. Couldn’t understand how the day had progressed to this. Sherlock had showed no sign of being interested in anything sexual that morning and had even snarled, glaring and stomping in childish annoyance at the mention of his meeting with Mike. Was this his way to get back the attention he’d lost throughout that morning? Would Sherlock really be that ridiculous? What was he thinking when he thought of them, together, what did he think they were?

“I could… take you in my mouth during?” Sherlock offered when he’d finished giving the other fingers the same treatment, taking them into his mouth, against his writhing, promiscuous tongue. “You could touch me. _Everywhere else_. Touch me as I touch myself.”

“ _Jesus_ …” John muttered and, after blinking hard to sever their eye contact, looked down at Sherlock’s displayed penis. It was pinker than it had been previously, thickening and extending, the bow of black lace complimenting and shifting as it swelled, tightening on the plumping base. “Yeah… yeah alright, I’ll… _yeah_ …”

Sherlock gave a slanted smirk and leaned back, stretching out his torso in invitation, “Feel free to tell me what to do as well,” he murmured. “You are _a lot more_ experienced in self pleasure than I am…”

John let out some sort of grunted reply, knowing he was being mocked, being teased, and allowing it, giving Sherlock the time to be bold, to be confident, to be cocky. He liked it. If he was honest with himself, if he let himself admit it, he could say he even adored it. Adored how sure Sherlock could be, how haughty. How poised and unruffled and dominant he liked to play, liked to pretentiously parade it around for all to see, for him to use when he sought fit. He adored all of it because now he knew he could replace it, could remove it, could shuck that part of him for a more primal, more submissive and needy part. John remembered how Sherlock had looked, had moved, when he’d gripped his hair, sucked his cock, thrust up against him. He was sure he would never forget it. 

Wanting to watch that change in his face, watch all that certainty and imperviousness get replaced with shocked delight, with aching want, John waited until Sherlock had reached with his right hand, fingers lightly grazing along his flushing pelvis, down, down, down to where he was still growing, still lengthening, and around to draw a line up the underside, before he swooped in and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to arch his throat. It was a lovely sight, lovelier still when Sherlock gasped with an open mouth, shaking and bucking up, erection filling out with a thick jolt. John was addicted to how perfect it was, how instant the reactions came, how unique and unexpected his strongest erogenous zone was. Was this why he always played with his hair? Was this why he’d claw and tug and scratch whenever he was overly annoyed? How hard was too hard?

Letting out a small, hitching whimper, Sherlock tilted his hips and took himself in hand, nudging and crumpling the lace bow with the side of his little finger as he began stroking. It was shaky and a bit clumsy, but with one of John’s hand in his hair and the other crawling its way down his heaving chest for a rosy nipple, the technique really didn’t matter. John liked it anyway, liked how innocent, how inelegantly that Sherlock held onto his shaft and rubbed the beading tip, liked knowing he was putting him off, taking his focus, distracting him. It made Sherlock writhe all the more.

John, panting now too, painfully hard in his own pants, circled one of Sherlock’s nipples and watched how it made his rhythm all the more inept, “Won’t take long, will it?” he whispered with a tut, surprised at himself. “Never does, does it?”

“You… you _did_ leave me… me waiting— _Ah_!”

“That’s not why,” John told him and leaned in, twisting at his handful of curls so he could rest his elbow on the headrest and pull Sherlock’s head back further. He then brought one knee up to stabilise himself, crushing a number of decorating bows, and dragged his touch down to Sherlock’s navel, to the hair beneath. John was shaking, was too hot, too hard, too hyped up by it all. He wanted to kiss Sherlock, to taste him, to push him down onto the sofa and grind, push, rub his own cock against his. Wanted to do a lot more than watch. “Give yourself a _squeeze_ …”

As if he’d been gagging for an order, for something to follow, Sherlock did as he was told, grasping at himself, stroking harder, faster, in a maddening need, leg muscles contracting so hard that they sprang out from their crossed position. He scrambled at the coffee table with his toes, knocking several rolls of ribbon onto the floor. They span off, leaving a road of fabric behind them, and John gave his hair a small tug in reprimand, leaning in with a shaky breath to peer down the length of his torso, playing with the short dark hairs of his crotch. He was as close to Sherlock’s erection that he would let himself get. Could feel the heat coming off him. Could even smell his musk in the air.

John was sick with desire, “Th-that’s it. Do… _do it_ , Sherlock. Make yourself _come_ for me…”

Moaning through a clenched jaw, Sherlock began thrusting up into his fist to obey, pre-ejculate giving more than enough lubrication, coming out in dribbling lines and wetting his fingers, the tops of his thighs, and then flung at John, on the sofa, as Sherlock circled his hips so hard, so impassionately, so frantically, that his abdominal muscles undulated. It was almost enough to send John scrabbling for his jeans and he growled, finding himself swaying towards that exposed and prettily wrapped neck. Everything about Sherlock was delicious. The feelings that the man brought through John hurt his heart, stole his breath, and unnerved him. What was it he felt exactly? What were they? What did any of this mean? He couldn’t get the questions out of his head, the same repeating questions, couldn’t stop and force the anxiety and disconcertment away long enough to rationalise or answer anything. Had never been able to do that. Not to himself, not to his therapist, and not to Sherlock.

As his teeth sank into the strained flesh of that gorgeous throat, Sherlock gasped, grabbed for him with slicked fingers and violently shuddered, exhaling the most erotically gruff bark of sound that he’d made thus far. John let go just in time to see Sherlock’s body thrash, every muscle contracted and shivering, from his jerking thighs to his bulging biceps, cock jumping almost straight up to spatter semen in high arcs along his body, catching John’s arm as it went, dampening the sleeve of his jumper. Everything about him juddered in the aftermath, clenching and unclenching, and Sherlock whimpered through it, eyes rolled up and mouth dropping open. John had to move in, had to kiss him, had to suck at his lips, smear his mouth up his reddened cheek, couldn’t not. Sherlock deserved the praise.

“Good. Perfect. _Brilliant_ . Yes. _Fuck_ . Yes, Sherlock, _God I want you_ ,” tumbled out of John in a mumble, broken by every kiss, every hiss of vehement want, and he nibbled, for a moment, on the hinge of Sherlock’s slackened jaw. “I hate how much. I hate it. _I fucking hate it, Sherlock_.”

“...Why?—”

“I’m going to _come_ _on you_ ,” John interrupted and released Sherlock all at once to open his jeans, reach into his pants, and spit down on his throbbing cock. It took over a dozen pulls and then John tensed, pushed his hips forward and shouted in release, letting his orgasm take him, covering Sherlock’s stomach, covering the damn ribbons. He slumped forward, just about catching himself before he fell, and blinked blearily at Sherlock, at his frowning expression. "M'sorry... I couldn't resist--"

“You… _hate_ it?” Sherlock breathed, fingers of both of his large hands tangling as he cradled them together in front of him and spread their mixture, the evidence of what they did together, up to the centre of his chest.

“...What?”

Sherlock’s face tightened and though he was still out of breath, still not composed, everything about him became distant, “You… said that you _hated_ it. Sounded very… angrily certain of that fact.”

“Did I?”

“You _did_.”

“People say a lot of… random things during… _you know_ …” John replied, feeling ridiculous kneeling over Sherlock, still holding himself. “And I… I’m… it’s just… _frustrating_. I’m frustrated.”

“Frustrated,” Sherlock intoned, eyes somehow dulling. “Hm. With me?”

“Yes,” John answered and then winced, tucking himself away, stepping two feet back on the floor again, “I mean… _no_ . Not… not exactly - I’m just a little… _crazy_. This… this _thing_ has made me crazy. I can’t… I can’t get my head around it—”

Sherlock shifted, cutting him off, and John watched with his gut twisting, lingering fizzes of pleasure roughly and immediately extinguished as he got up onto his shaky legs, “I need a shower,” he muttered and shoved at John with a snarl when he stepped towards him. “ _No_ . You clearly need to… to figure out what it is you want from me, from _this_ . What it is you actually _think_ —” 

“ _No_ , _no_ ,” John argued and followed him as he made his way to the kitchen, ejaculate dripping down his body, legs still unsteady. “ _Sherlock_! - You don’t get to walk out on me. Don’t get to act this way when you haven’t said a _single fucking thing to me_!”

“I wasn’t aware that I had to say _anything_!” Sherlock sneered and swatted John’s hand aside when he went to grab him.

“Yes you _fucking_ were!--”

“ _We_ don’t talk! That’s… that’s what we _do_ . We say… other things, we _do_ other things. I realise you’ve been struggling with this, but I thought you…” Sherlock stumbled to a stop in the corridor and turned to face John, leaning against the wall with a narrowed gaze. He was still shivering and wouldn't look John in the eye, just stared resentfully at his shoulder. “What is it _exactly_ that you _are_ struggling with?”

John sighed and flushed, vibrating, put on the spot with an unhelpfully blank mind and a cowering confidence, “What… what we _are_? What this _is_? What… what this… what... what it will do to us? All of it? - I know that people have this _thing_ for you--”

Sherlock blinked, nose crinkling in confusion, “ _What_?”

“--People like a mystery. They have crushes. Over how you look and move and talk. They want to sleep with you. They find you physically attractive. Have _lustful_ crushes that go in time… unless you’re Molly, but that’s only because you—”

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock uttered. “You are afraid that once this little _crush_ of yours goes, it will have lasting effects on our friendship.”

“Well, I… I don't think...”

“You want me. _Physically_. Just… physically, and think that's _bad_. That once you get bored of it, have your fill of it, that our friendship will be in ruins,” Sherlock mumbled and his mouth bowed, the corners pinching, though only for a moment. Only for a flicker of a second. “It won't be, John. Not on my end, at any rate. I will not... I don't want that. We can survive a lot. I think we can survive _this_. - All right?”

John blinked, “Wait, _what_? 'Had my fill of it?'--”

“I _want_ to be your friend, John. Always. I won’t let anything ruin that.”

Stepping forward, John shook his head, took Sherlock by the shoulders and squeezed gently, trying to get him to look at him completely, “ _Look_ … wait a second… _don’t_ just take your... um... your theories as fact. Nothing is final. There's no conclusion, because we haven't made everything clear. I'm being... being stupid. Don't stick with this thought, not because of what I said. - I don’t know _what_ is going on with me… I don’t know what I’m saying, let alone _thinking_! There’s a lot to… a lot to… work out. We just need to… _talk_ , okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over him and he sighed in aggravation, “We _don’t_ talk.”

“We need to.”

“We _won’t_ talk.”

“We _need_ to.”

“Go on then…”

John opened his mouth, faltered at Sherlock’s lifted eyebrows, closed it and opened it once more to try again, "Well... I... I, uh, I..." he stammered and tried to think, tried to continue on with what he’d been doing, been saying, knowing it had been the right path, that he was going the right way about it, he just needed to carry on. One second became three, then more and more until he just clenched his teeth. He had no idea how to start this. How to talk to Sherlock. How to get out everything he felt, wanted, had thought, had said, had been told. “ _Fuck_ …”

"Hm. Exactly."

" _Shut it_."

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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